


New Blood

by Fur3v3rY0ung



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angels vs. Demons, Exorcisms, Heaven vs Hell, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 18:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fur3v3rY0ung/pseuds/Fur3v3rY0ung
Summary: Sin is the act of transgression against divine law.Divine law is a system of rules and regulations set out by God and recorded in the Bible.The Bible says "You shall not commit adultery, murder, steal, covet, or take the name of the Lord thy God in vain."The bible also says "If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away, burn the daughter of any priest that profanes him, and severely beat the servant who does not obey his master's will."But maybe I'm the one in the wrong.Demons are always wrong.





	New Blood

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on this project for a couple of years, it has gone through a bunch of revisions and changes to the characters and the story itself. I really want to get it out there and have some outside insight on how it looks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every story has a beginning; this is the beginning of Daniel Magdalene's.
> 
> He's just a boy barely brushing manhood, and all he has ever known is a hometown of people who hate him and a mother on death's door but loves him dearly. He has never left and never plans on leaving.
> 
> Things never go as planned.

A church is a sanctuary. A building constructed for the public worshipping of Christian values where people feel united under the eye of their lord, expressing their feelings of devotion and gratitude through songs and prayers. However, the moment I step into the building, I feel nauseous.

I sit alone in the back, where no one else dares to sit, and all I can think about is this splitting headache pounding in my head. The people are listening intently to the sound of the priest’s voice - amplified by the church's acoustics - obediently responding with the occasional amen whenever it is prompted. I can barely hear anything over the persistent ringing in my ears.

It is a sound I have grown used to over the years, quiet yet relentless, but that doesn’t make it any less painful. Nonetheless, I have learned how to ignore it; which is still not an easy thing to do. Most of the time, I wish I could just skip the weekly visit all together, just to avoid the headache it would cause. I know I can never go through with the idea. Not with Mom insisting we go every Sunday.

One quick glance to my right, I can see her staring straight ahead with that same dazed look she had when the priest is preaching. An absent-minded gaze of her dull hazel eyes that tells me she is listening as closely as I am. It always seems like she has something else on her mind, something she is trying to forget but never can let go of.

My mom often has this look even outside of church whenever I catch her sitting by herself. I want to ask her, but the few times I have she teased me about spying on her and played it off as if she hadn’t been staring so blankly at a wall for the past ten minutes.

“Haven’t I taught you about staring, rude boy?” My mother’s voice whispers softly. I snap out of my own trance realizing that she is now looking at me through the corner of her own eyes. She has a faint smile on her lips as I mutter a soft apology and reach over to fix the blanket draped over her lap making sure her legs are covered.

Despite being fairly young, my mother is always ill and incredibly frail. Her skin, though pale, is still soft and I always felt a sense of comfort when she presses her weak palms against my cheek regardless of how cold they are. Her long blonde hair cascades over her shoulders and frames her small face in such a way that it made her look even smaller. If she were healthy, I know that she would certainly be considered beautiful by all, but her fragility got in the way and only seems to bring pity upon her. Even I worry that one day a strong gust of wind will come by and whisk her away.

For now, she would stay by me, looking as beautiful as any heavenly angel as she places her hand upon mine. For a second, I feel the throbbing in my head mellow but it returns just as quickly when the room let out another chorus of amens. It must’ve shown on my face because I felt her hand squeeze mine tighter like she can feel my pain; the last thing I want to do is give her more pain. I just give her a reassuring smile and squeeze her back, and that meek smile returns to her face.

Another hour passes before the sermon finally ends and the priest gives us permission to, “Go in peace.” I am one of the first to stand up, all too eager to get my mother and myself out of the building ahead of the crowd and out into fresh air. Carefully I pass by my mother and retrieve her wheelchair propped up against the back wall, unfolding it next to the wooden pew. She peels away the blanket leaning upon the back edge of the pew in front, her legs shaking beneath her and it’s clear to see how most of her weight is being put on the wooden bench as she takes a tentative step toward me.

“Mom,” I sigh.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

It takes a few moments but eventually she makes her way to the end and only then does she finally reach out for me fully-ready to take the lead and guide her into her chair. With her sat down safely once again I can relax and carry on with caring for he.

“Daniel you don’t need to make such a fuss; I’m okay,” my mom playfully protests as I lay the blanket over her lap tightly tucking her in. She never said it aloud but I knew she didn’t enjoy having to rely so heavily on her son like this. Unfortunately it’s unavoidable when she can hardly take a few steps without feeling faint and have her legs quiver beneath her.

Once, I had just come back from grocery shopping in town, I was going to go check on my her but when I turned the corner to head for her bedroom I found her right there, lying in a heap on the floor. My heart stopped and for a moment I stood there frozen in fear, afraid that my mother’s illness had finally taken its toll and she had taken her last step. To my relief she lifted her head.

Ever since then I have been much more cautious about leaving her alone for too long; the terror that I experienced in that moment is something that I never want to experience again, much to my mother’s dismay.

I can only smile and tuck her in tighter, carefully tucking her wiry blonde strands behind her ear. “Sorry, you know I just want you to be comfortable,” I say hoping to put her at ease though she can be just as stubborn as I am on these matters.

My mother laughs softly and gently clasps her hand around mine, caressing it tenderly with her thumb. “I know,” she says with a soft sigh, “Suppose being a worry wart runs in the family. I just wish you didn’t have to worry so much about me.”

“You’ve been doing better,” I reassure as I move to the back of her chair grabbing the handles. Just as I am turning her chair around, someone approaches us, or more so appears in front of us because she definitely wasn’t there before.

The girl, who looks to be about my age, possibly a bit younger, is cleaning the wine goblet used during communion with a cloth towel. Through my quick examination of her I can also see she is wearing the same white robes worn by the altar servers, contrasting rather pleasantly against the rest of her dark palette. Which is odd since I did not remember seeing her up front assisting the priest during the service, then again my mind had been elsewhere. I hadn’t seen her around before so she is likely new. Her hair is black and curly, wisps of dark hair in long, wide curls resembling grape vines. Her skin and eyes are also a similar brown hue. All in all, she seems like a nice person, but still a stranger and one who is giving me a very strange look.

“Hey, you didn’t come up for communion,” she states with no hint of judgement in her voice. She just seems curious.

I glance down at my mother before meeting her gaze with my most polite smile, “Well I didn’t want to leave my mother alone back here, and I was never really inoculated so I can’t participate either way.” My brain bangs against my skull begging to get out of the church but this girl is standing right in front of my mother’s chair - at a respectable distance - preventing me from moving forward. Going around would be rude and I didn’t need to make us look even more shady in the eyes of the townspeople.

“Then why don’t you?”

Another pang. “Uh, never have the time I guess.”

“That’s sweet that you would do that for her. You’re very lucky to have a boy like this, I know some that would hardly bat an eye.” She laughs softly looking at my mother who politely does the same. My mother is always happy to talk to people, she’s a very outgoing person if she only had the time and energy to be so.

Another pang as my mother joins the conversation. “Yes, I’m very lucky. I’m Ms. Smith by the way and this is Daniel.”

“Nice to meet you two. I’m Blythe, Blythe Beauregard, just moved to town a few days ago.” Blythe shook my mother’s hand as she introduces herself, holding the communion cup in her free hand. She then moves to shake mine and I hesitate for a moment, gripping the handles before slowly reaching out to take hold. Our fingers just graze each other when I feel a horrendous ache in my head that sent me reeling back and left my vision blurry. I’m sure I must look strange with my face wrinkling in pain, but I had to push through and force myself to grip her hand and give a frantic shake before hastily pulling it back and excusing us.

My mother tries to ask what is wrong but I can’t say anything until we were a safe distance away from the building and I finally feel the pressure on my skull tone down to a very dull ache. I let out a deep sigh bringing the chair to a gradual halt, leaning against it so I can take a moment to catch my breath and steady myself.

“Daniel! What was that?” My mother’s voice rang out finally processing in my hazy mind. She was looking up at me now, turned around as much as she can in her chair so that she faces me with those big hazel eyes I have come to seek out in times of need. Just looking at her soothes my nerves and eventually my headache completely subsides and I am able to smile at her and nod.

“Yes, sorry. I just needed fresh air,” I reply and begin pushing her chair again, slower this time with more control now that the pain isn’t taking the wheel. She scolds me a little for startling Blythe but she doesn’t say anything else so we are able to enjoy the rest of the walk home in blissful silence.

It’s late in the morning now so all the shops that had been closed when we arrived are opening their doors, readily accepting those early-bird customers trying to get the freshest deals - which is most everybody so it kind of defeats the purpose. Small stores and cafes with brightly colored walls lined the small roads, each one holding its own unique charm while maintaining that close bond of family; fitting as all of the businesses here are owned by local families. Which, in a small town in the center of Pennsylvania where everyone is either related or a close family friend, is pretty common.

It’s a strange thing living as the outcasts in such a closely knit area but not much can be done and I’d rather spend time with my mother anyways. Everyone here is very nice, they used to invite my mother over for coffee even though she always declined with the same excuse of not feeling well. Always polite and always so friendly, it was a shame that she had gotten stuck with a son like me.

I know the real reason she declines though and why no one ever asks me to come over: I am the devil’s child. Or I used to be. That isn’t really a title that you can get rid of so easily.

No one in the town trusts me, no matter how much I try to show them I am a good person, I can see it in their eyes. Even now, while pushing my mother’s wheelchair down the sidewalk - with the occasional imperfections in the cement causing the chair to shake - I can feel the eyes of those early-birds locked onto me. Uttering skeptical chirps to one another from behind the safety of the glass panes while I am left to silently bear it.

One look from me would surely silence them, but it would also further etch the image of a violent psychopath looking for an excuse to crack in their minds.

### 

“Daniel… have I ever told you about the day your father left?”

My head snaps up, freezing halfway through picking up her dinner tray - chicken that had grown cold from sitting on her lap left mostly untouched - she hadn’t had much of an appetite tonight and now I realize why. Looking at her I can see that her pale face is downcast, staring at her hands intertwined with each other, her distant gaze telling me that her hands are not really the center of her attention. 

After church we had made the journey home. Down the long dirt road that stretches deep into the woods towards an old wooden house, surrounded by crooked trees that never hold any leaves. At some point it had been white but that paint had become chipped and faded over the years to the point that the wood, that had grown dark and damaged from the elements, was much more visible. It was so worn from its old age that the floorboards groaned and creaked whenever they were stepped on, and the spiders had made themselves permanent residents no matter how many times their webs were swept away. They and other insects always found a way to get back in.

Every inch of the building was either dusty, dirty, covered in webs, or all of the above; it was a miracle that it even had power, but it did and it was home.

Our day carried on like always; my mother in bed resting while I clear out the newly constructed spider webs, sweep the floors, tend to the small garden behind the house, and prepare meals. It’s a lot of work maintaining the house but for the sake of my mother’s health it’s another worthy sacrifice. I’ve grown used to it by now.

Lunch went by just fine, though Mom did look especially tired when I came by with soup and sandwiches; dinner did not go as smoothly. One touch of her forehead and I could feel her fever not to mention how she was coughing and could hardly take a bite of anything without her face scrunching up in pain. Eventually she just couldn’t bring herself to eat anything else and lay back exhausted, but now she was sitting up and fidgeting with her hands waiting for me to form some kind of response.

Setting the tray on the nightstand beside my empty plate I sit back down and shake my head as I reply, “You’ve brushed over it once or twice. Mom, you should really get some rest.”

She stills for a moment then falls back on the bed with a sigh. Her tired eyes flicker up to me and I know that she desperately wants to tell me something and her lip quivers in attempt to find the words. For a second, I think I see tears start to build up in her eyes but she is thrown into a coughing fit before they can fall. I jump up and sit on the edge of the bed letting one hand rest on top of hers while the other reaches out to grab her cup of water and hold it out for her. Her hands shake as she grasps the glass, raising it cautiously to her lips to take a quick sip in between the rough coughs that rake her body.

She nearly drops it, but I help steady her hands allowing her to take a bigger sip before she has to hand it back to me to put away while she catches her breath through heavy pants. “I’m so tired Daniel,” my mother says with her head turned away from me again, “So tired of hiding.”

“What’re you talking about? Mom, what could you possibly have to hide?” I say half-joking, smiling despite the worry boiling up in my gut. Seeing her like this - struggling just to keep a nibble of food down - it’s enough to make any normal person cry, but when it’s my mother it makes me want to curse the world.

How dare they do this to the sweetest person I’ve ever known? How can God, if he was even up there, leave this poor woman with nothing to her name but a wretched son and a dusty shack? I know I shouldn’t curse the Lord’s name like this, Mom had taught me to always be grateful for what we have, but when all he has ever brought me is heartache and headaches it is hard to thank him.

She was the only person who truly loved me enough to stay by my side and raise me. The only person to tell me I’m not some kind of hell-spawn. If I could take her suffering away I would, even at the expense of myself. She deserves so much better than this. Carefully I lean over to plant a soft kiss to her temple, singing quietly as my hands envelope her own.

_Hush, my little one, close your eyes for me._  
_Though I’m the one you want, I’m not what you need._  
_So dream, my love, dream. Dream of sweets and honeydew._  
_Dream, my love, dream. Dream of what I can’t give you._  
_But remember when you wake, at dawn’s early brake._  
_When you hear little birds chirping, I will be right there._

A tired smile crosses her lips; one that I gladly send back at her, if only to soothe the dozens of rancorous thoughts that would surely keep her awake. Mom tries to say something when I raised the blanket but I silence her with a another quick kiss and she resolves to begrudgingly letting the warmth of the blanket take over. I gather all the dishes onto the tray and then make my way to the door, stealing one last glance at her figure wishing that there was more that I can do for her. The blankets are swallowing her small frame, I can hardly make her out when I turn off the lights but I can hear her heavy breaths so I know she is there.

“I love you,” I whisper as I open the door heading out into the hall.

“I love you too.” It’s barely audible but I manage to catch it and smile at her before shutting the bedroom door. Little did I know, that would be the last thing I hear her say for a very long time.

After all the dishes are cleaned and put away, and I do one last sweep for the spiders - there seemed to be a lot of them tonight, even more than usual - I finally retreated to my bedroom at the far end of the house to turn in for the night.

It’s exactly the kind of room one would expect from a middle school dropout with no hobbies other than cooking and cleaning to have in this dusty hut. Small, cramped, and completely bare of any kind of furnishing aside from the basic necessities, such as: a twin-sized bed with springs that squeak no matter how many times I try to fix them, a wooden stool supporting my reading lamp that is my only source of light at night, and a dresser that holds all my clothes, which isn’t a lot.

I practically flop onto my bed once I get dressed, hearing the springs let out a chorus of shrieks at the sudden strain of weight being put on their weak metal frames. All I want is to go to sleep; to rest my head and let the blanket wrap around my body and take me to dreamland like it had my mother. A good night’s rest might be the exact thing I need to clear away this doubt and worry pooling in my stomach.

Unfortunately it becomes very apparent, very quickly that the only thing I’ll be getting is restless thoughts to keep me from the one thing I want the most. It’s going to be one of those nights, seems like I can’t even get a good night's sleep nowadays thanks to that oh so gracious man upstairs. Is it so hard to let me sleep for one night? Is that really too much to ask for? A sharp pain hits my head and I groan. I guess that’s a yes.

Since sleep is proving to be futile at this point, I sigh and sit up resolving to occupy my new free time with some more chores. If I’m lucky, I’ll tucker myself out and end up falling asleep on the couch; it’s not the best option for my health, but considering the circumstances I don’t really have anything better. With that thought in mind I quietly creep out of my bedroom, tiptoeing cautiously by Mom’s door so as not to disturb her much needed rest, and make my way to the kitchen.

It’s dark in the kitchenette conjoined to the living room, but in the faint glow of moonlight I can already make out some spider webs building up around the windows meaning that they’re likely hiding elsewhere in the room as well. With a sigh, I turn on the light and go to retrieve the broom so I can get to work when someone knocks on the front door. Who in the world could be knocking on the door at this hour? More importantly who was visiting the house of the cursed family? No one from town ever comes to our house unless absolutely necessary, like the mailman - though we rarely ever had mail.

I stand there staring at the door, wondering if maybe I had just mistook the sound for the creaking floorboards, but when another knock resonates I know I was not mistaken. Gripping the handle of my broom, I start inching towards the door a million worst-case scenarios racing through my head in anticipation of who or what could possibly be waiting on the other side. It’s too dark out for me to see any defining features of the figure standing right outside, but it is definitely a person.

With extreme caution, my hand finds the doorknob and slowly turns it to crack it open and peek through to find a vaguely familiar face staring right back at me: Blythe Beauregard.


End file.
